


(There Is) Nothing Like a Dame

by ossapher



Category: American Revolution RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alex is a girl, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - World War II, Ben is a girl, F/F, Femslash, Gen, Laf is a girl, The French Resistance, bombshells fighting Nazis, early computing, everyone is gay or bi, racebent Alex, racebent John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 19:57:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7587826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ossapher/pseuds/ossapher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Really, the tags say it all. All your American Revolution faves, as ladies who love ladies, World War II-style. This will be a collection of short/medium-length oneshots rather than a multi-chapter, single-arc story. </p><p>1. In which Benny Tallmadge, already tall, reaches higher.<br/>2. In which Alexandra encounters a heroine of the French Resistance, and the advice "never meet your heroes" is soundly refuted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another tumblr prompt that got horribly, wonderfully out of control. With many thanks to [Fickle_Obsessions](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Fickle_Obsessions) for betaing and [berryholic-hamiltonic](http://berryholic-hamiltonic.tumblr.com/) for shoving me out the door. 

Feeding punch cards through a noisy machine day after day doesn't precisely feel glorious, or even important, but it is everyone's duty to do their bit for the war effort, and Benny (for she refuses to go by “Melbina”) is especially qualified for this position, in that she is tall enough to reach the very top of the pegboard that she must wire up each morning. She is aware that there are some very complex maths happening in the whirling paper all around her, and that this process somehow turns complete gibberish into regular old German. The nature of this process, while mysterious, fascinates her: despite her recent stint as a governess, she has a bachelor's degree in maths from St. Hilda's, Oxford, and she feels that she could follow an explanation, were she given one. But of course all of this intelligence work is top-secret, need-to-know only, and her job is mostly to keep the paper from jamming. It is the considered opinion of her nation that she does not need to know.

One day Johnstone, the gentleman in Hut 4 to whom she normally transfers the finished stack of punch-cards, is gone from his desk. She is already late, having had to fix several bothersome paper jams, and is acutely aware of the urgency of intelligence work—how could she not be, with the spin and bustle all around her, and this very gentleman who is now missing constantly lecturing her that she needs to work faster so he can finish his reports in time?

Cautiously, and looking every moment over her shoulder, she takes a seat at his desk. Painstakingly working off the crib-sheet that he left for himself, she translates the punch-cards into letters. Then, thanking her lucky stars that she'd had a brief literary fling with the German Romantics in a rather morose teenage period, she lumps the letters into German words, and translates the German words into English. The difficulty is quite insignificant, compared to _The Sorrows of Young Werther_.  

Another woman, tall like herself, scuttles in. Many of the girls here are quite tall—height is a major hiring consideration in the women of Bletchley Park, just as a keen appreciation of complex mathematics is in men. This particular woman’s hair is all astray, sweat dripping down her brow, and Benny gives her a sympathetic nod. She dumps a stack of punch-cards on the desk. A few moments later, another woman, also quite tall, delivers another stack. And another, and another. None of them comment on the sudden absence of Johnstone, but one of them gives Benny a slight smirk before she returns to her own hut. Benny works diligently, and soon believes she has a decent picture of the last twenty-four hours of German naval activity in the central Mediterranean.

Up until this moment, she might have argued, rather far-fetchedly, that she was staying within the bounds of her job description. But the facts exist: she has intelligence—intelligence is needed—surely, surely, it is her duty to deliver this intelligence? That is, to write up a report?

She rests her fingers on the keys of Johnstone’s typewriter, terrified and exhilarated all at once to be so unambiguously overstepping, and begins to tap away.

She’s about halfway through when a woman blusters in the door without knocking. Benny startles so badly she knocks her chair over, and has to pick it up and put it back, apologizing all the while.

When she finally straightens back up again, she realizes that she towers over this girl. She’s not one of the computers, then.

“Johnstone finally crack?” the girl asks, raising a perfect black eyebrow. She has an American accent and looks like an exotic Hollywood film star, with immaculate Victory curls and lipstick so red she could be printed on a propaganda poster. She’s wearing an Army uniform; Benny doesn’t recognize the insignia. “And you’re the new intelligence analyst, I’m guessing?”

 _I’m only a computer_ , Benny wants to say, but something in the steady way the girl—the woman—looks at her gives her pause. She’s not making fun, when she asks if Benny is an intelligence analyst. She sincerely believes she might be. “I ran an analysis,” Benny says carefully. Her father was a parson, after all. Lies are not in her nature—truths carefully selected to imply falsehoods, on the other hand, are just as much a part of her as her Psalms.

“And?”

Benny narrows her eyes. This woman could be a spy sent to seduce her—or, more plausibly, sent to seduce Johnstone. “Who are you, exactly?”

“Alexandra Amello,” the woman says, with an annoyed toss of her head. “I’m the personal secretary to—”

 _Face like yours, I’ll bet you are_ , Benny thinks, shocking herself. “I’m going to need to see some identification,” she interrupts.

Alexandra rolls her eyes and hands over identification and proof of security clearance. Her clearance is higher than Benny’s. Damn!

“Fine,” Benny concedes. “I’m almost finished with the report. Only let me finish typing it.”

She turns back to the typewriter. “Good lord,” Alexandra says, watching her hunt and peck, “you are the slowest typist I have ever seen. Move over. Dictate it to me.”

Alexandra’s fingernails are immaculate, devoid of polish but perfectly shaped, and they clack as they fly over the keys. "A German supply convoy has left for Tripoli, with profuse apologies to Rommel for the fog delay. The weather has cleared. If our men send a spotter plane to the coordinates I have noted here, they will have a plausible reason to track the convoy and sink it." Benny says it all in a rush, words tripping out of her mouth like body stumbling down the stairs in the middle of the night.

Alexandra turns, raising an eyebrow again. Benny shuts her mouth, blushing. Was she too bold, to offer an opinion on the spotter plane? Only, it was hardly an opinion at all, merely common sense that any time they used Enigma intelligence they would need a cover story, or else risk blowing the secret that they had cracked the code at all. But Alexandra does not check her, and as near as Benny can tell the words make it into the report.

“Thanks,” Alexandra says, taking the finished report from the typewriter. “I’ll see about getting your position made permanent. Lord knows you’re better company than Johnstone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wish to reblog, please do so [here](http://philly-osopher.tumblr.com/post/147847162619/well-it-looks-like-the-wwii-au-is-actually)!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Fickle_Obsessions](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Fickle_Obsessions) for the beta! Any inaccuracies are my own. 
> 
> This chapter's the one that earned this work the M rating-- femslash ahead!

“Oh, no,” Fitz says, with a wicked grin, throwing out an arm that bars her from the command room, “You’re looking after Joan of Arc today.”

“On whose orders?” Alexandra snaps. Yes, she’d ordered the evac last week, yes, she’d handled many of Joan’s (or Jeanne’s, to be French about it) missions, yes, she’s been down with just a touch of malaria lately but she’s _fully ready for duty now,_ or will be once she catches up on field reports, and in any case—“I’m not a nurse and nor am I an invalid, Fitz, and I’ve got reports to deliver. Step aside—”

The door in front of them swings open, and the General, shameless eavesdropper, steps out. “On my orders,” he says. “You’re the only one who might be able to handle her. I want that gal ready for the cover of next week’s _Life_ magazine. We’ve got to remind the public how valuable the French contribution was and is for us — and she _is_ valuable in the field,” he adds, before Fitz can make some quip. He holds out a hand. “I’ll take that report.”

Alexandra hands it over and salutes the General crisply. She knows better by now than to argue. Any concession on his part would be interpreted as favoritism, and any favoritism would provoke the question of why it existed, and anybody would conclude _the General is fucking his secretary_ , no matter how wrong that is. That’s just the way the world works. “Sir.”

***

“Oh, thank _God_ , I was beginning to think you’d left me to die of boredom,” Jeanne says, in French, as Alexandra enters. They’d given her a room to herself, on the principle that a lady deserved her privacy, and that this lady in particular knew far too much about their plans for sabotage operations in Vichy territory in the next few months to be kept in a general ward. But it did mean that she’d been effectively by herself in a broom closet for several days. No wonder, Alexandra thought indignantly, she’d made herself difficult.

“First thing’s first,” Alexandra says, standing over the bed. There’s no chair for her to sit in; she feels uncomfortably like she’s looming.  “What do I call you?” She’d been addressing her communications to “Jeanne d’Arc” when she was still in the field, but it feels strange to call someone that to their face.

“Marie is fine,” the woman says, holding out a hand. Her fingers are long and bony, her nails bitten down to the nubs. She’s anything but elegant, earthy and real. Her bandaged leg rests on top of the covers.

They shake. “So nice to meet in person,” Alexandra says. “I’m Alexandra Amello. Most of your correspondence from Eisenhower has been coming through me.”

“Oh, so _you_ ’re the one who has been giving me all the interesting things to do!” Marie exclaims. Her grin is almost too big for her face—something at once delightful and alien, in the middle of a war.

She’s beautiful, Alexandra thinks suddenly. She has a big beaky nose and wide-set eyes and red hair cropped so close you can barely tell it’s curly—and she’s beautiful. Alexandra had expected strength, fortitude, valiance. Beauty takes her off-guard.

“I am,” she says, late.

“Well, thanks for that,” Marie continues, unaware of the devastating effect of her smile. “Should have known a woman was behind it. Blowing that bridge in the middle of a snowstorm—what a night that was!”

“I’m a fan of yours.” Alexandra says, allowing her brusque facade to slip a little. "Your reports have been a much-needed bright spot for me, in this war."

If she’s being honest, she’s been living through those reports—imagining the sheer mountain peaks, the deep forest, Jeanne’s desperate danger and bravery and wild cleverness pitted against the ruthless Nazi war machine. Every time she’d received news of a successful mission she’d raced to read every detail, only wishing that she could have played some greater part, imagining herself fighting by Jeanne’s side. But no—she was only a secretary. She’d fought vicariously, giving Eisenhower little nudges here and there, _don’t you think Jeanne could do that? Should we ask Jeanne?_ Throwing little scraps of glory her way.

“You’re the most resourceful operative we had. It would have been a waste not to use you to the fullest extent of your abilities.”

“All right then, you can stay,” Marie jokes, patting the narrow cot. “Sit down, would you?”

Alexandra sits slowly, watching Marie’s face carefully for any sign of a wince. When there is none, she allows her weight to sink into the cot. “Do you have a last name?”

“Nothing of any significance,” Marie says, with a sly little quirk of her lips. “As I said, you may call me Marie.”

“Fine. Marie. Are you comfortable? Is there anything we might provide to aid your recovery?”

“Dear God, are you Americans all such mother hens?” Marie cries out in exasperation. “That’s the only question I’ve been asked since I got here.” She pauses. “Actually, there is something you could do. I was wondering about the man who helped bring me here. John Muramoto.”

Ah, yes. When Alexandra had seen the intercepted orders for an S.S. battalion to smoke Jeanne out of occupied France at all costs, she’d known that there was only one man she could trust to help her escape. Muramoto’s unit was already one of the most decorated of the war.  A handpicked group of men from the 442nd, Alexandra was convinced, was worth their weight in gold.

“You worked well together, I hope?” Alexandra asks.

Marie nods vigorously. “His French is perhaps not up to the same standards as yours, but I judge him to be a fine soldier and a good man.”

 _Fine soldier_ is almost comically underselling it: Muramoto is the type to walk into fire to complete his mission—or, if not fire, then the French Alps in the dead of winter. That’s why Alexandra chose him to go after Jeanne. She’d needed to keep her alive—for more reasons, it seems, than even she knew at the time. “He’s one of the best. His tactics are a little… aggressive, but I thought—”

“Oh, I _wish_ we could be so aggressive in the Resistance!” Marie enthuses. “If only we had the resources...but of course, you are well-positioned to help on that front, are you not, Alexandra?” This accompanied by the biggest, roundest pair of puppy dog eyes Alexandra has seen outside the context of an actual puppy dog. “Perhaps… once I return to the field…”

 _Not until the magazines are done with you_ , Alexandra thinks bitterly. She promises herself to do everything she can to speed the process along. In the scheme of things, one French Resistance fighter won’t be too much of a publicity coup, and of course they’ll want to downplay the military side of things because she’s a woman.

“In any case,” Marie continues, oblivious, “John showed me a few bayonet tricks that’ll be fun to try out. In the field they were… mostly successful."

“ _Mostly_ successful?” Alexandra repeats, alarmed. Good grief, John already has one Purple Heart, does he really need another? “Was John wounded as well, then?” God, this is what she gets for getting sick the night his field report came in. He’s one of the few idiots in this war who’s managed to break through her defenses and actually get her to care, deeply and personally, about whether he lives or dies.

“Oh, he was only grazed. He wasn’t concerned,” Marie says, and Alexandra sighs with relief. “It’s only that we shared a sleeping bag on the way back and he was very awkward afterwards. I need to make sure it wasn’t anything I said."

“You—you shared a sleeping bag,” Alexandra repeats. John and Fred Kimaruya are definitely going steady; they bunk together and mess together, and after they’d taken Sicily she’d caught them fucking so violently in the back of a Jeep she’d been worried for the suspension. “Did you actually sleep with him?”

Heat drops into her stomach at the thought: Marie with her head thrown back, Marie with her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth falling open and John with his scarred hands and captivating dark eyes and that flame of anger burning hot in him and dear _God_ she needs a good fuck, she shouldn't be _thinking_ like this...

It’s not that she hasn’t had abundant opportunity in the form of fit, willing men all around her, over a dozen of whom have made it abundantly clear that she would be welcome to stop by their bunk _any_ time. But there’s no faster way to lose a man’s respect than to sleep with him, and Alexandra needs their respect a hell of a lot more than she needs their cocks.

“Jealous?” Marie teases.

Women, on the other hand. Women, women, _women_.

“Should I be?” Alexandra asks. She’s been considering the question of women extensively. Most of them are too meek for her taste, or too married, or too in love with this or that _boy_. But… that Benny girl back at Bletchley Park, with her vaulting brilliance and her awkward elbows and the pencil smudged across her face—she’d been something. And all three of the Star-Spangled Schuyler Sisters, who’d performed at the USO ball and left Alexandra gulping water to disguise her flaming face—wow, they’d been something too.

She’s never had an opportunity before, with a woman she respected enough. There’s never been _time_ , and here she is with a whole afternoon at her disposal… the only question is, whether Marie will be willing to join her.

“There’s… nothing to be jealous of,” Marie admits. “That’s the thing. I asked him if he wanted to and he muttered something about it being ‘too rocky’ and wanting to ‘be careful of my wound’ and said he’d pass.”

 _Those sound like perfectly good reasons to me_ , Alexandra thinks, but says nothing. Marie continues with a sigh. “I just wanted him to know there were no hard feelings.”

“Ah,” Alexandra says, comprehending Marie’s need for a conversation at last. “If I fetch you a newspaper, do you promise to stay still long enough for me to contact his commanding officer with a request to come visit?”

Marie deems this acceptable. Alexandra has a long walk across camp in which to contemplate the intriguing thoughts now tumbling through her head. Usually such a walk would have a sobering effect on her, but all she can think now, in her fizzy excitement, is how perfect this opportunity is—the private room, the blinds on the windows, her blissfully open schedule…

Needless to say, she makes the trip in record time.

Having devoured much of the newspaper while Alexandra was off messaging John, Marie is full of questions about the war. She hasn’t had a really good news source, she says, since their radio got blown up in an airstrike early this year. Since then, for her the war has been random skirmishes and nightmarish close encounters, or else missions handed down, hastily conveyed, without the benefit of context. She’s enthralled to hear what the ultimate results of some of her efforts were, against the backdrop of the larger struggle. “I’m delighted to know I’ve been of some help,” she says, beaming again and making Alexandra warm down to her toes.

“My dear,” Alexandra says—and it doesn’t feel strange to call her dear, feels like exactly the breezy French thing to do, to set them both further at ease—“you’ve been of an enormous help. And, as I said before, I—I greatly admire you.”

She brushes her fingers along Marie’s temple, a question in her touch. She’s being so dreadfully clear with her intentions—her heart is racing. But her instinct is that Marie is the type to prefer, as it were, a direct approach. If Marie shies away, or even closes her eyes to simply enjoy being petted, Alexandra won’t press any further forward. But Marie’s eyes lock on hers like a sniper’s on their target, a wild, hopeful light coming into them. Alexandra’s hand completes its motion, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

“You would…” Marie whispers, and then immediately snaps her mouth shut, looking wary. “This isn’t just because you feel bad that your man said no, is it?”

Her tone is flirtatious, but there’s a real question buried inside. “No,” Alexandra laughs.

“Or because you pity me for being wounded? Because the doctor says I’ll be walking in a week, really—”

“No,” Alexandra laughs again, a little softer this time. “I don’t offer you this out of pity.”

“Or because of… who I am?” The flirtatious tone is all but gone. Marie looks… wary.

“Who you are?” Alexandra snorts, trying to revive the banter they had going. “Of course it’s because of who you are. You’re my Jeanne d’Arc, Marie—you… you…” She pauses, begins assembling a speech in her head. “Marie. In the course of this war, where opportunities for glory exist for any man to snatch up, you have proved to yourself and to all of us that women, too, may—”

“All right, all right, shut up!” Marie cries. She surges up from the bed, flinging her arms around Alexandra’s shoulders and clinging to her as they kiss. Alexandra braces one arm against the headboard and holds Marie’s head up with the other, fingers spreading easily through her short-cropped hair. Marie bucks up, curving her body up into Alexandra’s. She feels shivery and hot all at once with lust—it’s too much too quickly, but damn, it’s been so long since she’s been touched like this…

She forces herself back. “Wait just a moment,” she says, and Marie groans and lowers herself to the bed.

Alexandra secures the blinds, thoroughly covering the snow-capped peaks out the window. She fastens the deadbolt on the door.

“Are we really doing this?” she asks Marie.

“I’ll be very disappointed if we’re not,” Marie growls.

“Alright. Well, before we start again, you have to promise me that you’ll tell me if your leg hurts,” Alexandra says. She realizes that the effects of her stern tone are undermined somewhat by the fact that she’s frantically undoing the buttons of her blouse. “I’ve been told to have you ready for the cover of next week’s _Life_ magazine and I can’t imagine injuring you further would help accomplish that goal.” She carefully folds her blouse and places it on the windowsill.

“Understood,” Marie says, smirking as Alexandra steps out of her skirt and places it on top of her blouse. Her skin is flushed, her lips very red—from Alexandra’s own lipstick, and that thought draws Alexandra forward to drag her thumb over Marie’s lower lip. Marie groans and opens for her, and their mouths meet again. _Oh_ , Alexandra thinks, _this is the best idea I’ve had in ages._

Over the next hours—because that’s how long they have, _hours_ , in the middle of the war, like a spring in a desert—Alexandra leaves all the rest of her lipstick behind: across Marie’s collarbones, behind her ear, in a faint stripe down her stomach that terminates between her legs. Marie’s long fingers undo her once, and then twice, the second time shaking her like a long roll of thunder, and from there she slips into simple bliss, her face pillowed against Marie’s breasts, thinking of nothing at all as Marie twines her fingers through her hair.

There’s a knock at the door. Alexandra goes rigid—damn, what time is it, who could possibly be—a nurse? a doctor? Fitz, with urgent work for her?

“ ‘Oo eet eez?” Marie says, in a valiant attempt at English.

“It’s, um, John Muramoto?” comes the reply, in French. “You asked to see me?”

“Oh, thank Christ,” Alexandra mutters, sagging back into Marie’s arms. “Tell him to come back in fifteen minutes. Actually, wait. Tell him to go to my bunk, fetch my curling iron and my brush and my makeup bag, and _then_ come back in fifteen minutes.”

Marie relays this order with great amusement, tacking on her own request for a pack of cigarettes. “It won’t take you fifteen minutes to get dressed, will you?” she asks Alexandra. “So we still have time for…”

“Oh, we _definitely_ still have time,” Alexandra says, hiking up on her elbows with a wicked grin.

They break apart at some indeterminate later point, when John starts pounding on the door. Somehow the noise seems indignant. “Look, I’m gonna miss chow if you gals take any longer, can I just leave your stuff by the door?” He’s speaking English, clearly having come to the painfully obvious conclusion that Alexandra’s there.

Alexandra stands, wobbly-legged, and throws Marie’s hospital gown over herself, trusting the bedsheet will cover Marie. “Sorry,” she whispers, opening the door a tiny crack and allowing him to pass everything through. He’s shaking his head, but a rueful grin is trying to make itself known on his face. “We, uh, must have missed the second knock.”

“I figured,” he drawls.

“Any chance you could fetch a damp washcloth so I can take my face off before I put it back on?”

He looks disturbed by her word choice, but he returns a moment later, washcloth in hand. “Unbelievable, Amello. Un. Be. Lievable.”

“I’ll be sure to pick a more discreet location next time. Like the back of a Jeep.”

“Touché.”

“Seriously, though. Are we even?”

“We’re even.”

“Is the General looking for me?"

“I ran into him. May have insinuated you were helping Miss Lafayette prepare for her _Life_ interview.”

Alexandra’s mouth drops open. “Lafayette. As in… as in _that_ Lafayette? From… from history class?” Suddenly the cover of _Life_ magazine is making more sense. God, she should have read the field report!

“Jesus, did you two talk at _all_?” John cries, throwing up his hands. “Were you literally just—this whole time, you were just—”

“We were,” Alexandra says, holding her head high. “You are correct to be impressed.”

“I hear my name,” Marie calls from the bed. “If you don’t include me in this conversation, I’m going to get out of bed and include myself in it, and I don’t think you’d like that…”

“Go get your stupid chow,” says Alexandra, shoving John away. “Actually, wait. Not yet.” She switches to French. “Marie had something to say to you, right Marie?”

John pokes his head back in the room. “Yes?”

“I just wanted to say,” Marie declares, “that there are no hard feelings over the sleeping bag incident on my part, and I hope that there are none on your part.”

“Clearly you’ve moved on,” John deadpans. “Somehow, I’ll have to cope.” But he winks and tosses her a pack of cigarettes, and hurries off to dinner.

After John’s gone, Alexandra turns back to Marie. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, in what she hopes is a neutral tone. An interrogation isn’t exactly the best way to keep a more-than-friendly acquaintance going—and Alexandra most certainly wants to keep this going.

Marie shrugs, sitting upright in the bed with her feet splayed out. Clearly she’s not eager to fight, either. “It didn’t seem like it should matter.” Her mouth turns down. “What my whatever-great grandpa did for your country is hardly relevant to my life, is it?”

“He was a symbol,” Alexandra says softly, sitting on the bed and drawing Marie closer to her. She doesn’t _think_ that her opinion of Marie has changed at all—if anything, seeing her modesty about her birth has only endeared her to Alexandra further. But… damn, it’ll be hard to justify risking her in the field again to the General, now that they know who she's related to. The public is going to eat this up with a spoon. “They’re… they’re going to make you into one too, now. A kind of… reciprocal symbol. You helped us, now we help you.”

“Mm,” Marie says with a slight frown. “But shouldn’t you be helping us because you hate fascism?”

“It’s hard enough to get America to do the right thing, period,” Alexandra says. “I’m afraid that doing the right thing for the right reasons may be beyond us.”

Marie chuckles. “So I’ll have to convince them, is what you’re saying.”

Alexandra kisses her cheek and gives the other side of her face an affectionate pat. “You do have a certain appeal about you. I’d say you have a shot.”

“But I want to _fight_ ,” Marie says, barely over a whisper.

“I want you to fight, too!” Alexandra says fiercely. “Hell, I want to fight myself! But...” She almost says something like, _but we must each fight as best we’re able, and I’m best as a secretary, and you’re best reminding the American public that France is a friend worth dying for._ The argument sticks in her throat. Perhaps she’s willing to accept it for herself. But never for Marie, never for her too-brave, wild-eyed Jeanne d’Arc. “... but I’ll help you get out, if it comes to that. I won’t let the old men hold you back.”

They kiss one more time, this one different from all the rest, languid and sure. “I’ll hold you to that,” Marie says. Regretfully, she adds, "You probably have to leave as well, then."

It’s true—Alexandra dines later than the enlisted men, but she still needs to eat, and they’re fortunate the nurse hasn’t stopped by with Marie’s dinner yet—or maybe one did, and John asked her to come back later.

Throwing off the gown, Alexandra retrieves her clothes from the windowsill and puts them back on, only minimally creased, then spruces up her curls a little bit with her iron. What little remains of her morning makeup comes off easily enough with the washcloth, and then she reapplies everything fresh, with a quick check in her compact mirror to make sure nothing’s terribly awry. Although her hair is a little wilder in the back than usual, she can pass that off as the result of a windy day. There are probably small hints she won’t be able to hide, but… nothing unambiguous.

“I’ll make sure you get a paper every day, and I’ll visit again as soon as I can,” she says, gathering Marie into a quick embrace. “After all, we _will_ need to prepare you for that interview.”

“I look forward to it,” Marie says, catching her hand and squeezing it. “Don’t forget about me?”

“Oh, darling,” Alexandra says, “as if I could.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to reblog, please do so [here](http://philly-osopher.tumblr.com/post/148022031404/there-is-nothing-like-a-dame)!


End file.
